2. Talking Treebed

It seemed obvious now to Prebuha that she’d made a mistake. A tree cannot move. It cannot flee. Building your new home in its shadow meant living in permanent darkness and cold.

Fortunately, it was only a temporary home. To satisfy her people, most of whom weren’t used to traveling yet. It had been a while since her homeland was destroyed in a disaster and she’d had to merge with other folks by force. She was an adult now, in the prime of her life, leader of this messy mixture of tribes. Her negotiation skills had been tested, in multiple languages. Settling underneath an abnormally large tree was the latest compromise on which they settled.

Prebuha’s argument, admittedly, hadn’t been too strong. Being a sloth, she just liked hanging from branches. This particular tree had a massive trunk, thick colorful branches, nice and soft all the way, a cozy bed for sloths to sleep on—until it started talking to her.

“The fires get worse every day, don’t they?” said a low, rumbling voice.

Startled, Prebuha slid off her sleeping spot. She had to catch a lower branch to prevent a painful landing below.

“I … suppose they do,” said Prebuha, though she didn’t know where to aim her voice. “I thought the fires we saw yesterday were a rare accident.”

The tree shook violently and made—was it chuckling? “A day without random fires, that wood be a rare accident.”

Prebuha carefully climbed back up. She didn’t dare dig her claws deep into the tree trunk anymore. After staring upwards for a while, she finally discovered a multitude of eyes, as if carved out of the tree by the most skillful of Bearchitects.

Just past it, through holes in the canopy, dark clouds were forming. She had run into the sentient clouds on occasion, such as when they purposely created fog to send Prebuha the wrong way. They always seemed angry, as if the recipe to create one was grumpiness with a dash of perceived injustice. She had never imagined a sentient tree, though.

“Doesn’t that scare you?” asked Prebuha, not sure what else to say. Her tribe members were busy arranging their shelters for the night. Some looked up with a puzzled expression. “Or are you magically protected from forest fires?”

Another chuckle. Prebuha was showered in leaves and nearly fell down. “No, no, nothing of the sort, unfortunately. Wood be nice, of course. But I have magic, for sure, and I use it to—oh look, Dilova is joining us!”

The branch on which Prebuha stood suddenly bent, twisted, and grew longer. All of that to point at a figure in the distance. She alternated between flying and pulling a larger, flightless figure along.

“No, I retract my branches—I shouldn’t be happy about that,” said the tree, his voice speeding up. “Where Dilova goes, fire goes.”

Prebuha couldn’t allow that. She had a responsibility now to protect these animals, and some sort of pyromaniac bird would never let her sleep at night again.

The sloth jumped to a different branch, then swung to a smaller tree from a vine. She felt agile, powerful and alive as she created gusts of wind.

“Stay there,” she called down before landing, “and explain yourself.”

“I am Dilova,” said the bird. “I mean no harm, I don’t. I am merely looking for a sorcerer.”

Prebuha frowned. “One shaped like a tree?”

“Erm, possibly.”

“One to set more things on fire?”

“What? No. For a special kind of magic.”

Prebuha landed right in front of Dilova, encased in clouds of dust and dirt. Her people were gathering at her back, whispering among themselves.

The sloth held out her claws, ready to push Dilova away if she tried starting a fire now. “Well, speak up. What kind of magic?”

“This is no way …” interjected the tree behind her, his voice thundering through the Forest of the Fallen. “… to treat an innocent guest. I will shelter you, sloths and other beings, but this forest doesn’t belong to you.”

Prebuha fell silent.

Dilova pointed her wing at the figure to her right. “Does … does my father look particularly healthy to you, right now? Smart and strong?”

“Erm … he looks … fine?”

“Fine isn’t good enough!”

Dilova’s wild wave with her wings made Prebuha step back. She checked to see if any plants around her had suddenly gone up in smoke. None had.

Her father sagged, as if his paws had suddenly become useless. Dilova struggled to keep him upright. She was an adult now, stronger than when her father’s mind had broken, but still had only a single leg to stand on.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” said the tree calmly. “Bring him here, to rest on a bed of my magical leaves.”

Prebuha felt she had to say something. Do something. Stand up for her people, claim her space. If they had actually stood up and protected themselves long ago, when enemies came for their beautiful city …

But the tree was right. The forest wasn’t theirs, it wasn’t anyone’s. And what was she worried about? They had food, they had space, they had magical trees who seemed friendly and protective. She couldn’t deny that she felt strong, safe and … satisfied.

“Let’s negotiate then,” said Prebuha with a smile. “There will be no more hostilities from us, if you tell me about the forest, the fires, whether we’re safe here, and anything else to look out for.”

Dilova gave the faintest of nods. Prebuha helped carry her mumbling father. A task so easy for her it was almost boring, and soon Dilova carried nothing at all and put her father on Prebuha’s broad shoulders.

“I’ve heard people say it’s the firebirds,” said a sloth behind her.

“It’s obvious, innit?” replied a large Gosti. “It’s in the name!”

“Their name was given because they always appear near fires,” said the tree. “They are mostly regular birds—”

“Well then! Case closed, keep them out of the forest,” said the sloth.

“I will not accept this kind of thinking,” said the tree slowly, “not in my forest. I know the godchildren wouldn’t like to hear it too.”

“Oh who cares what they—”

The tree suddenly twisted. The trunk rotated until it almost snapped, just to help the tree drop a particularly large bundle of leaves on the sloth’s head. And look him straight in the eyes.

“The gods are doing all they can to keep us together. I have their blessing, and they have mine. Without their protection, the Chiefclouds would have enslaved all of you long ago. Buried you in endless rain, snow and thunderstorms until you gave in to their demands.”

“Well,” said the Gosti, “I heard that they’re squabbling among themselves. Feria has built a throne on a different continent and amasses her own loyal army. They’re turning on each other!”

“I have heard so too, unfortunately,” was all the tree said.

“Oh mighty tree,” said Dilova, sinking to her knee before him, folding her wings as if in prayer.

“Ah,” said the tree. “Call me Tresmo. For that is my name. Stands to reason you call me by—”

“I know I am not worthy,” continued Dilova, “but I have to make a request of your wisdom. Have you seen a sorcerer … who is able to make you stay the same forever?”

“Ah,” Tresmo said again. “That explains a lot. Now that you mention it, as a matter of fact, I think I have.”

Without a warning, several fires erupted at the edge of Prebuha’s vision.

“Haul water!” she yelled immediately. “Prepare to evacuate! Bring me a blanket of leaves for—”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary,” said Dilova. “They extinguish themselves, always have.”

“What? How?”

She shrugged.

Dilova kissed her father on the cheek, then made straight for one of the fires. She took a varied assortment of food out of a pouch around her neck, flew over the nearest fire, and dropped it all.

“It’s hard to explain,” yelled Dilova as she flew past again, “but you might want to prepare for dozens of animals coming here now asking for food. It seems I am lucky enough to have my moving restaurant near a magical tree, I do!”

Dilova’s restaurant had a very productive and profitable night.

One that never seemed to end.

By trade and trees, it did never end!

Prebuha grew increasingly worried when the fires did not extinguish themselves, but simply gobbled up more and more area. Night came and went, morning arrived, and the fires burned mercilessly. Tresmo wailed as he saw “good old friends” of his turn to ash.

Disaster seemed to go wherever Prebuha went.

Dilova’s request stuck in her mind. A way to keep things the same forever? She would never be healthier than she was now. The longer she waited, the more disasters could befall them, maybe kill half the tribe. Maybe before the day was over.

As Tresmo begged a few Smallclouds to rain on the forest, Prebuha went to ask him about the whereabouts of this sorcerer.